


Tiger Tiger

by FanGirlMiv



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, HighSpecs, Humor, Ignis in overalls, Lingerie, Romance, Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut, poor ignis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-12 14:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11163513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanGirlMiv/pseuds/FanGirlMiv
Summary: AU in which there's (still) peace on Eos, and Aranea Highwind is hired as an instructor by the Crownsguard of Lucis. And that means working with Ignis Scientia, annoying as he can be. A collection of oneshots not in chronological order.





	1. Trophy Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aranea gatecrashes Ignis' attempt at making the perfect dinner date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter began life as a stand-alone one-shot but I was attacked by a plot-bunny.

Ignis knew it was a bad idea the moment Aranea opened the door.

She was dressed in nothing but a lacy black bra and a matching thong, with black garter stockings hugging her shapely legs. On her feet were red stilettos so tall that she could looked him straight in the eye and when she arched her back – Ignis swallowed.

“Hey, Specs, fancy meeting you here,” she said cheerfully.

“I locked the door,” he replied lamely, clutching the bags of groceries rather harder than necessary.

“I have the key,” Aranae sing-songed, lounging in the doorway. “Gonna come in or spend the evening standing in the hallway?”

Ignis took a deep, calming breath, averted his eyes and walked stiffly past her and into the apartment. _His_ apartment, Astraldamn it. Aranea was messing with his normally supremely analytical brain. Which was probably why he gave her one of his spare keys in a weak moment, that might or might not have involved his face between her strong thighs.

The door closed behind him and he could hear Aranea throw herself onto the couch and make herself comfortable. Ignis, however, marched straight to the kitchen island that dominated one end of the large, airy living space that made up the bulk of his apartment. He could practically _feel_ her eyes on his back as he carefully set down the grocery bags on the black granite table top and began to distribute his purchases. His brain was waking up from the shock of seeing her, and actively replayed _seeing her._ His blood was not exactly rushing north at the moment.

He shifted and ground out, without turning. “I thought I made it clear I had planned a date today. A _dinner_ date.” He pronounced the words carefully, tried to put scorn into them, and probably failed miserably, because a moment later he felt a finger slide down his spine through the cotton of his shirt. Ignis sucked in his breath, shivering.

“You can blame the big guy, he let slip that you were planning some fancy cooking tonight,” she breathed, her voice low and sultry, caressing the shell of his ear and making his mind hazy. 

“I am going to strangle him with his own towel,” Ignis grumbled, doing his best to resist the urge to turn around and kiss her senseless.

“Ouch, so violent, Specs,” Aranea said in mock horror. Then a strong arm snaked around his waist, and he could feel a supple body mold itself against him, soft breasts pressed into his back, a sharp hipbone grinding into his buttock and a foot caressed his ankles. He had respect for Aranea’s feet, even they had a death grip. She had once ripped his shirt open using only her toes.

He nearly stopped breathing, afraid his galloping heart would give away the storm of need she raised in him. Highwind indeed. At least her hand had stayed above his pants. So far.

Ignis shook his head and straightened, carefully taking her hand and unwrapping it from his waist.

“Aranea, please, I would very much appreciate if you would let me prepare the food in peace. I have imparted to you how important this evening is to me.” Ignis tried his best to ignore how pleading his words sounded. 

“Please? _Please?_ ” Aranea said slowly, and Ignis swallowed. Shit. But he couldn’t think straight with her pressed against him…

“So you would like me to do you a favor, is that it?” she said. Suddenly, she was not behind him, but standing on the other side of the kitchen island, leaning forward, chin resting in her palm and regarding him with glittering eyes. And the cups of her bra were made of sheer lace and her breasts were nearly spilling out as she leaned forward.

_Oh gods and split béarnaise._

“Apologies, I did not mean to imply that -” Aranea raised a finger and wagged it at him.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, and you keep talking, I thought they taught you better manners up at the castle." 

"Citadel,” Ignis corrected, before he could catch himself. 

Aranea grinned like a shark, reached over the table and grabbed Ignis by his tie so fast he didn’t think it was possible without warping. 

“Talking back to a superior, I had expected better from the Royal advisor,” she said. “They should be thankful I’m here to teach you some manners.” She pulled him towards him, reeling him in until their faces were inches apart.

“But I am lenient tonight, which you should be fucking grateful for.” Ignis quietly send up a small but fervent prayer to the Astrals that it meant she would spare the contents of his fridge. Last time Aranea had decided to teach him some manners, she had shown him some ways to use veggies that would have driven Noctis catatonic, and emptied his entire store of ice cubes and frozen fruit.

“Big guy also reminded me of that bet,” she went on, and Ignis did a double take and nearly lost his balance because Aranea still had his tie in an iron grip.      

That. Bet. 

It was something that had emerged, like the proverbial mutant from a radioactive spill, except here it was the much more dangerous combination of male hormones and alcohol. 

They had been sitting in the Crown, the traditional watering hole for the grunts of the Crownsguard and the occasional Kingsglaive. Having been dragged there several times by his friends, Ignis now found that he enjoyed the less polished atmosphere of the pub. Even the cooking was surprisingly acceptable, even if one had to order bleu to get a slight blush to one’s steak.

So Ignis blamed the informal mood and the third glass of Shivas Regal for even deigning to reply to some of his companions’ less than subtle innuendos. He had done his best to keep it under wraps that he and Aranea were engaged in activities not safe for work, but Gladio unfortunately had a nose for sniffing out irregularities, and he was about as subtle as his great sword. At least the rest of the usual suspects didn’t do much more than grin into their beers, content with letting the Shield do the talking.

And though he would never admit it, Ignis was not completely unhappy with being the center of that kind of attention. Aranea was simply incredible, and he had honestly thought her out of his league. Apparently, he had made one of his rare miscalculations. Aranea had for some unfathomable reason had designs on him, and made that amply clear as she cornered him next to the copy machine. Ignis had suddenly found himself a target of envy, and he was not above preening a bit.

So his judgement had been twice impaired when Gladiolus began talking about how he had a damn hard time concentrating when he fought Aranea in that skimpy, skin tight outfit she used for training, and a couple of Glaives joined them and agreed wholeheartedly. 

Then he had turned to Ignis and asked how he got anything done with her around, and Ignis had rather haughtily replied that they had no self-discipline. 

Gladiolus had outright called him a liar, and Prompto demonstrated that he didn’t need a camera, because he painted a very vivid picture using words alone, as he described how Ignis had signed his timesheet upside down because Aranea had walked into the office. Ignis had almost kicked the blunt boy under the table.

It was Crowe, one of the Glaives, that laughingly interjected that it was lucky he had not been cooking, he would have burned down the house, and Ignis had crossed his arms and rather firmly stated that he most definitely would not be distracted, and the rest of the table had said _a-aaaah_ , and he had protested with _would not_ , and they might have been going back and forth all night if Aranea herself had not arrived and asked what was going on. After that, Ignis had been mercilessly side-railed and a bet drawn up faster than Noctis could fall asleep. As if that was not catastrophic enough, the only ones of his so-called friends that bet in his favor were Prompto, out of pity, Noctis, because Prompto called the Prince and cajoled him into it, and Aranea because the woman had a truly warped sense of humor.

“Let’s run over the rules, Specs,” Aranea said, tugging on his tie before letting it go. “If you can get something edible out of your recipeeeeh with me around, you win.” She had such an outrageous accent that Ignis had to fight down a smile.  

“And if I do not produce something ahem edible?” he reluctantly asked, slowly resuming emptying the bags, just to do _something_.

"You’ll wear that frilly apron and nothing else for the Ascension Day celebrations next month,” Aranea said with a Cheshire cat grin.

"What!? Absolutely not!” Ignis exclaimed, irately waving around a stalk of celery.

“At ease, Specs. I’m kidding.” She narrowed her eyes. “You can wear pants. And those suspenders instead of the apron. Don’t say I’m not generous.”

Ignis gaped at her. There was no way, even if King Regis ordered him, that he would do the cooking shirtless. And there was no way he would hand over the responsibility of preparing the food for the most important public holiday of the year to someone else. Unfortunately, he had agreed to have Aranea decide what happened if he lost, if only to shut up Gladio, and that in the presence of around 12 other people, who had undoubtedly already gossiped all the way to Niflheim. There would be no end to his humiliation (even before the frilly apron) if he tried to wiggle out of it. And King Regis had been known to show appreciation for the more sordid kind of humor. He might just order him to do it. Ignis slumped in defeat. He was doomed.

“I am going to kill Gladiolus. Twice,” Ignis muttered, as he removed his jacket and aggressively tied the apron strings around his waist.

“Bring him along, big guy is always strutting around half-naked anyways, and he’s not hard on the eye,” Aranea hummed, peeking into the grocery bags. Ignis was about to ask what she meant by _that,_ when she pulled out a bottle of dusty champagne from the largest bag. 

“Lucky gal, your date.” She looked the bottle over and then casually set it spinning on the tip of her finger.

“Please, don’t shake it, it’s the last of that year, and - just give it here.” Ignis yanked the bottle out of harm’s way and placed it in the fridge. Slamming the door shut, he took a deep breath before turning around. 

“I’ll do it, because apparently I have no say in my own kitchen.” He resisted the irrational urge to stamp his foot. “But there will be rules. No bodily contact, no magic and no weapons.”

Aranea regarded him for a moment, and then nodded, chuckling. “Rules. Sure. Playing by the rules is fun once in a while.” Then she winked. “Like I need weapons.”

She squeezed her breasts between her arms, and shook her upper body in his general direction, and Ignis had to agree. No, she did not need any weapons.

“So, what’s on the menu?” she purred, words dripping with suggestions, and Ignis had to turn his back to keep from reaching out for her. This was going to be hard. Literally. He shifted a bit, hoping that she would not notice that he was getting aroused.

“Spaghetti carbonara and tiramisu with a twist of Duscaen orange,” he said slowly, mentally running through the list of ingredients in an effort to concentrate.

“Really?” Aranea said with genuine surprise. “Those are hard to come by.”

“I have my sources,” Ignis replied carefully. “I – might have heard a little bird sing about how that variety is appreciated.”

“Champagne and dessert and all things nice,” she whispered. “I am beginning to regret coming over.” She was so close, leaning in, but not touching, her breath caressing his ear, her pulse beating on his sensitive skin.

“No, don’t, it’s fine, it really is,” he muttered. He was sporting a raging erection by now and there was no way that she would not catch on. He could swear that she could smell arousal from 5 miles away.

“Looks like that,” she said teasingly, but strangely, retreated and leaned against the end of the kitchen island, watching him with inquisitive, tourmaline eyes.

Mystified, and slightly alarmed, Ignis finished unpacking the groceries and began to gather kitchen implements. Aranea knew very well the effect she had upon him, and she was not exactly subtle in expressing her own desires. She also hated to lose, and he had expected her to use every dirty trick in her apparently unending repertoire to win the bet.

Trying to push her out of his mind, he knelt down to find a large pot. Unfortunately, this gave him a perfect, sliding view of Aranea’s pale, toned legs as she leaned on the table, ankles daintily crossed. Her nails were immaculately pedicured and painted a dark red. He swallowed, and scrambled around as he filled the pot with water and put it on the induction stove, turning it on. All the while Aranea was watching him, not moving, and Ignis felt her eyes on him like something akin to a ray of sunlight, warm and sweat-inducing.  

Cooking. He had to do cooking. He could do that. He had chosen the dish especially because it was deceptively easy to make – most people just threw bacon, garlic and parmesan into a pan along with horribly overdone spaghetti, tossed it three times and called it carbonara. He both wanted to spoil his date and show off, perhaps get that elusive look of approval that he had been chasing for weeks.

He grated the cheese, setting it aside, cracked the eggs into a bowl and whisked them frothy, then unwrapped the catoblepas pancetta, removed the rind and began to cut the smoked meat into pieces. And still she just watched him. Ignis kept his eyes nailed to the cutting board. But it was as trying to deliberately not thinking about a pink behemoth, and immediately his mind was overrun with rosy beasts. _No touching,_ she had said. _Let’s make up for that,_ his imagination said. With a vengeance. _Her hands were sliding down his arm, kneading the muscles as he worked, while her lips whispered the most sinful things in his ear, promising to take him to that place where pain and pleasure melting together into white ecstasy –_

“Auch!” He dropped the knife and stared at his hand.

“Hey, I’m not a vegetarian, but that’s a bit too bloody,” Aranea said. Grabbing a kitchen towel, she threw it at him. Ignis caught it one-handed and pressed it against his bleeding finger.

“I did not bleed on the ingredients,” he said defensively, trying to keep his blush down. How absolutely shameful, but perversely, he was also thankful for the pain. It had killed his erection.

“Let me get you a heal-aid,” she said with a strange little half-smile that made Ignis’ heart skip a beat.

“In the bathroom, next to the sink.”

“I know,” she yelled over her shoulder. Ignis tightened the towel around his aching finger, and forced his eyes away from her wiggling ass. What had that enigmatic smile meant? He absently added salt to the water as Aranea came back from the bathroom, and handed him the heal-aid with an exaggerated motion to avoid making skin-contact, and Ignis could not help but laugh. He quickly bandaged up his finger and cleared his throat.

“My thanks. I suppose I should get back to cooking before it burns,” he said hesitantly.

“Yeah, no fun in winning because you sabotage yourself,” she huffed.

The water was boiling, and he quickly added the spaghetti, put on the lid, and poured Altissian olive oil into a pan and squashed the garlic with the flat of his blade. Aranea was hovering at his side, perhaps afraid he would scald himself, but seemed pensive. Ignis threw the garlic and pancetta into the pan and pushed it around with a spatula. His finger throbbed and he had to admit that he had lost interest in the food.

He tried to find something to say, and came up short. The silence stretched between them, becoming almost unbearable, when Aranea suddenly said: “You really went through all that trouble to get some stupid oranges.” It was not a question, but Ignis nodded affirmatively. It seemed rather silly now.

“It was not that much trouble, to be fair. Crowe had a stock.”

Aranea stared at him. “You are kidding me, you got little miss chili challenge to part with some of her secret ingredients?” Crowe was known far and wide as the best drinks-mixer in Insomnia, in no small part due to her infamous store of rare ingredients.

“I paid her,” Ignis admitted, because if he didn’t, Aranea would just call Crowe and get the truth from her.

“How much?”

“A trivial amount.”

“Ignis, how much?” She almost never called him by his given name, and he simply could not resist her when she used it.

He told her. And had the pleasure of seeing Aranea Highwind stunned into wordlessness.

He expected ridicule or disbelief at the very least, because in all honestly, it was a ridiculous amount to pay for 5 oranges. Crowe had mercifully not ridiculed him. She had been dead serious as she ripped him off.

Aranea didn’t ridicule him either.

Instead she just looked at him, and there it was, the look he had been chasing for weeks. And it was priceless.

“Aranea… “ He didn’t know how to continue without saying too much or too little.

So instead, he let his actions speak for him, throwing down the spatula and pressing her up against the table and kissing her deeply. She moaned into his mouth, her body pliable and scorching against him, and the rush of blood was like a storm in his ears. The world fell away and he sensed nothing but the woman pressed against him.

“Gods, you are so perfect,” he moaned. His erection was back with a vengeance, straining against his pants, and with a new sense of urgency that he had never known before, like he might literally die if he did not have her right now, he grabbed her by her buttocks and lifted her up upon the table top in one fluid motion. He hardly registered the clatter of overturned porcelain.

“Not so bad yourself,” she gasped, spreading her legs and pulling him close. Ignis bucked his hips, grounding his aching cock against her silk-clad crotch. Her strong legs wrapped around him as he ran his hands down her voluptuous curves, her skin whispering under his fingers like the finest steel.

“Perfection,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to hers and kissing her greedily, possessively. Her lips parted for him, welcoming his tongue into her mouth. She tasted like champagne and strawberries and pure sin and for perhaps the first time he truly reveled in it, allowed himself to get lost in the rush of sensations. And as always, the mounting pleasure was the call of the abyss, the darkness that lurked beyond the light, and she was his gateway. And for the first time he realized that the darkness might not be his enemy.

He fisted his hand in her hair, dragging her head back and kissed his way down the pale column of her throat, swirling his tongue in the hollow of her throat and eliciting a needy moan that seeped into his bones like honey.

“Fuck me.” The words rose from her like a plea and he shuddered, from what he hardly knew. He easily lifted her up and carried her to the couch, somehow managing to both kiss her and not stumble on the way. They fell into the cushions in a tangle of limbs, Aranea’s hands going for his pants as he pushed down the lace of her bra and freed her breasts. With a moan of need, he pressed open-mouthed kisses to the firm mounds, licking and sucking on her hard nipples as his hand ran down the swell of her hip, across her trim stomach and pushed aside her panties. She was so wet and warm and tight as he slipped two fingers into her, crooking them and making a come-hither movement that drew a ragged gasp of want from her.

Even as she shuddered under him, she kept pulling on his belt, getting it unbuckled by sheer force. Her impatience was glaring, and Ignis flung himself to the side, opening his pants and yanking them down. His cock sprang free, leaking and swollen, and he ran a hand down the hard length, slicking himself with their mixed juices, greedily watching as Aranea pushed her already askew panties more to the side, baring her shaved pussy, glistening with arousal.

Ignis was upon her like she was water and he was dying of thirst. Her slick folds parted for him and he pressed into her with a moan of relief. Gods, had it ever felt so good? He wanted to set a slow pace, but then Aranea angled her hips and rocked upwards, and any resolve he had crumbled.

He thrust into her hard, fast, clutching her to him, burying her face at his neck, their sweat and panting breaths flowing together as they slid against each other. It didn’t take long before he felt her tense, her body coiling like a spring, and he was so close himself. He wanted to prolong the pleasure, this closeness that he had never felt with her before, but he could not hold back.

Aranea shuddered under him, her whole body shaking as she let out a cry of pleasure, her muscles rippling around him and dragging his own release from him, a star bursting behind his eyes, and for a long while all he could do was hang onto her, dragging in air.

“Specs, you are not a featherweight,” she muttered after what seemed like an eternity.

He gingerly extracted himself from her, pushing himself up on one arm and regarding her fondly.

“Apologies, I forgot how fragile you are,” he replied teasingly, and was rewarded with a smile. Post-coitus had always been his favorite time with her, the incredible pleasure of their sexual escapades aside. Afterglow had been a lazy, suspended time where they allowed themselves to relax and forget about the encroaching world.

He had a feeling it would be different after tonight, for good or bad.

“So…” she said, idly running a hand through his sweaty bangs, twirling a sandy lock around her index finger. She was a vision of womanhood, swollen lips and mussed hair and eyes glowing with satisfaction and a tenderness that he swore was not there before.

“So…” He bent down and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, to her cheeks, the bow of her mouth. “… I think I lost the bet,” he mouthed into her shoulder.

“You are going to look so good in frills,” she snickered, pulling him down for another kiss.

“How would you know?”

“You are not the only one who knows a bird or two.”

“Oh? I will have to call pest control.”

A loud metallic _bang_ echoed through the apartment. Ignis’ head whipped around just in time to see the lid of the spaghetti pot wobble on the edge of the stove as a torrent of foamy water ran over the edge of the pot, flooding the stove. He shot up, forgetting that his pants were down around his ankles, and crashed down on top of the coffee table. In the utter confusion, one sound reached his ears with horrible clarity - the crunch of glass as the lid collided with the kitchen floor, and he swore into the cool tabletop.

“Are you okay?” It was Aranea’s voice, cautious and brimming with barely contained laughter.

“No, that pot is out of stock,” he groaned, slowly pushing himself up from the table.

“I was referring to the giant bruise on your arm,” she observed.

“I would give my arm to have that lid back,” he replied dejectedly.

“Could you stop being a kitchen baby and let me take a look at that?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Sit.” She pulled him down next to her and grabbed his left arm. Ignis winced, and sighed when he saw the red scrape that now ran down his upper arm. Blood was beading on the skin and his arm was aching.

“That was an impressively unimpressive move,” Aranea said, poking his arm.

“Would there be any hope of convincing you to forget the whole incident?”

“Never. This is first-class blackmailing material,” she said with a grin. “Do you have a potion? I don’t think a heal-aid is going to cover this.”

“Yes, in the bedroom, in the night stand.”

“Why on Eos do you have a potion in the bedroom?” she guffawed?

“I found it prudent to be prepared when a certain dragoon brought her weapons into my bedroom,” he replied.

Aranea let out a regular bray of laughter. “Oh, fuck the Oracle, you are a regular boyscout,” she grinned and got up, righting her lingerie as she headed for the bedroom.

“Always prepared,” Ignis muttered, leaning back in the couch with a groan, not even bothering to try and close his pants, surveying the mess that used to be his meticulously tidy kitchen. Water was still slowly bubbling over the side of pot, drying into an ugly brown crust, there was a print of Aranea’s arse in grated cheese on the table top, the bowl of whisked eggs had been knocked over and he could smell the pancetta and garlic burning to a crisp on the pan.

Yes, always prepared, indeed.

“When you lose, you do so in style,” Aranea said, as she flopped down next to him.

“It’s a disaster,” Ignis agreed. He was beginning to realize how much of his plans had been spoiled by impulse. And he would have to get the couch cleaned again.  

“Doesn’t feel like that,” she said, winking at him, as she opened the potion bottle and applied the glowing liquid to his arm. The familiar, tingling feeling of healing at work permeated his arm, and Ignis watched with satisfaction as the skin closed up and the pain disappeared.

“There, all better, Specs,” she said, kissing his arm and stretching. He opened his mouth to thank her, and then shook his head and chuckled.

“What?”

“You have parmesan right here,” he reached out and carefully picked the squashed cheese from the back of her panties.

“Say “cheese”,” she grinned.

“Careful. If you say it three times in row, Prompto is going to pop out of the mirror.”

“I do so loooove making out with his lense,” she giggled, striking a pose.

“Not dressed like that,” Ignis griped, and Aranea stared at him.

“That sounds rather possessive, Specs,” she ventured, and Ignis’ tensed.

“I, no, that was not my intention.

“Then, by all means, what were your intentions?” She looked intently at him.

Ignis took a deep breath.

“I only meant that I want to be the only man that you dress like this for,” Ignis admitted.

There, it was out. He might as well have shouted it from the rooftop. Which was probably what she would do in a moment, just to mess with him.

“You want to be the only one?” she said, eyes narrow. She moved closer, swung a long leg over his lap and straddled him. Ignis was immediately acutely aware that he was naked from the waist to his knees.

“You want exclusive right to _this_?” She ground into his lap and Ignis groaned, his cock hardening rapidly.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I want us to be exclusive.”

Aranea stilled in his lap, crossing her arms. “You been fucking around behind my back?”

“What?! No, you are the only one!” Ignis sat up, paling. What had they told her? Was it because he had been having lunch with Alean from HR or –

Aranea grabbed his shoulders and shook him lightly. “Easy. Astrals, you are too fun to tease.”

Ignis gaped up at her

“Fuck a duck, but you are adorable.” Then she grew more serious. “And Specs, no worries, we are already exclusive.”

“You mean it?” Ignis hardly believed his ears. That was it? They already were? What – why – when?

“Yes, and If you are a nice boy, you may even call me “girl friend”, saves me from kicking some lady butt when we go out.”

Ignis blinked, and then his mind made a veritable warp strike.

“You never had any intentions of keeping this a secret at all?” he exclaimed.

“Why on Eos would I want to do that, Specs? You are my trophy wife,” she declared.

Ignis was flabbergasted. “You, from the beginning, but you said –“

“I asked for _discretion,_ I didn’t think that the Royal Advisor would like to have it known to all of Insomnia that he likes to have his ass spanked across the copy machine.”

“Discretion… bloody discretion.” He shook his head. “Well, now I feel like a right fool.”

“Don’t. Prompto and Crowe are the only ones that caught on. And Gladiolus. And Nyx. And the King.”

“Kill me now. You set me up.”

“A-aahhhh!”

Ignis didn’t know what to say. He had been duped, the rug pulled from under his feet.

“Actually, the real bet was if you would figure it out.” She leaned in and kissed him.

“So you didn’t lose. Too bad, no apron for the ladies.”

“No strings attached,” Ignis moaned.

“Wrong. Very much strings attached,” she grinned. “How about you fuck me again, and then I’ll help you clean up the kitchen so we can get ready for our date?”

Maybe it was not such a bad idea after all.

* * *

At 8.24 there was a knock at the door, and Ignis hurried to open, adjusting his butterfly.

“Astrals, am I glad to are finally here!” he exclaimed.

The redhaired, pimpled young man in the flour-stained t-shirt that read “Dino’s flavor doin’ your tongue a favor” gave him a world-weary look. 

“I don’t put out. That’ll be 25.5, and we were out of asparagus and -” his jaw dropped and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

“Tell Dino next time he doesn’t get the topping right, I’m going to swing by and kick his bragging ass,” Aranea said, appearing at Ignis’ shoulder. She was dressed in a strapless, black dress that hugged all of her curves and had a slit almost to the hip, and still somehow managed to stay classy. Her hair was up in an elegant twist, a few stray silver strands enticingly framing her beautiful face and stones glittered like stars in her ears and around her throat. She still had on the 5 inch heels and her voice was like liquid chocolate.

“Yes, ma'am,” the delivery guy stammered. 

“That’s a good boy,” Aranea smirked, taking the pizzas. 

“Would you pay him, dear? And don’t forget to tip him,” Aranea added, sashaying into the apartment. Two pairs of eyes followed her, before Ignis’ brain caught up. He threw a handful of bills at the delivery guy and slammed the door shut with a “keep the change”. 

“For a view like that, I’ll deliver for free,” the guy muttered, picking up the bills.

“Fucking lucky dude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooopeeee, finally finished this baby. It was supposed to be a drabble, and then it just took on a life of its own. My humble contribution to HighSpecs smut, because we are thirsty! love writing HighSpecs, and this is not even my final form. Beware.


	2. Hot Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did Aranea get the hots for Ignis? Let's just say that she got her hands on a series of photos that gave her a whole new appreciation for the Royal Advisor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place before Trophy Wife, and before they began doing nsfw things at work.

"Mr. Scientia in?"

"No, ma'am," the secretary, a young, prissy blonde with her hair and her panties up in a twist, said. She gave Aranea a slightly annoyed look over the edge of her glasses. They were for mostly for show, a trait she shared with her boss. Aranea had seen through the charade pretty fast, and personally found it hilarious. She had not stolen Four-Eyes glasses yet, but she had been mighty tempted on several occasions. Especially when he struck that stick-up-his-ass pose and began lecturing.

"Any idea when he will be back?" Aranea went on, leaning against the desk. She was still dressed in training gear, black body armor, spaulders and heels and all, and she knew that she was a decently intimidating presence.

"No, ma'am, Mr. Scientia is in an emergency meeting with the Council. I really cannot divulge any details." The secretary couldn’t help but rock back in her ergonomically correct chair.

"Cuz he didn’t tell you diddly-squat and it pisses you off," she snarked.

"I beg your pardon?" The blonde woman launched at her like a spring-loaded toy, her eyes flashing with indignation.

"No, you don’t," Aranea laughed, and pushed herself off of the desk.

"Never mind, I'll just wait for him, I have nothing better to do."

She walked past the desk and towards the double doors, heavy and gilded in that stuffy, insomnian style, that lead to Spec’s office. She pushed down the handle and the door slid open without a sound. Well, well. It really must have been an emergency.

"Don’t you dare go in there!" The secretary had dropped the "ma'am" by now. Aranea thought it sounded pretentious anyway.

"If Mr. Scientia doesn't want visitors, he should remember to lock his doors," she shot back, and slipped into the office, closing the doors behind her and cutting off the woman's protests.

* * *

The office was large and flooded with light, no surprise as Four-Eyes had a corner office, two of the walls nothing but glass, offering a sweeping view over Insomnia and even the hazy mountains beyond. Aranea did not suffer from fear of heights - would have been counterproductive to her style of fighting - but she felt a surge of primal elation as she pressed her face to the glass, for a moment imagining that the window suddenly gave way and she was plunging towards earth. It would probably be a fucking wild ride, if one way.

She stepped back, snickering as she saw the imprint of her nose and hands on the pristine glass. She wondered how long it would take for captain OCD to spot the irregularity and whip out the handkerchief she was sure he carried around for just such an abhorrent event.

Now, standing in his very office, surrounding by his spotless, sterile interior, not a speck of dust in Spec's office, she couldn’t help but chuckle. She had come to discuss the purchase of new lances, because apparently in Insomnia, all roads led to Ignis Scientia. Fuck if she knew how they had run the Kingdom before he came around.

But even he could not be two places at once. So Aranea didn’t hesitated to throw herself into his chair, the expensive piece of furniture adjusting to her body immediately. Not too hard, not too soft. She stretched, rocking back and forth. Idly, she wondered how it would be to have sex in such a chair. Shit. Her brain kept bringing up sex. Probably because she had not been laid for nearly 3 months! It was not that she had been lacking in opportunities. Aranea knew that she was good looking and had a body to die for. It was just that she had been so busy with work and setting up her apartment, getting to know the city and her new colleagues. Among which there were plenty of damn fine specimens. She chuckled. She really had to take this old body out cruising before she molested someone during training.

Idly looking around, trying to find something to distract her mind, she found nothing of interest. The walls were hung with a few geometric prints, a pedestal held what looked to be a reproduction of a Solheim vase, the cabinets were closed and a single green plant in the corner did its best to cheer up the austerity of the room. She turned to the desk in front of her, and bonus! A large envelope lay in the middle of the desk, next to an empty cup of coffee. The envelope was open and a glossy print poked out. It looked like a high-quality photograph. Aranea looked the envelope over. Cheap, store bought. On the front was written in an energetic and slightly uneven hand: _Hot stuff!_ Ohhh, this was simply too tempting. And the envelope was already open. It seemed that Specs had been about to look at the contents of the envelope when he got called away.

Aranea looked around furtively and then quickly took the envelope and looked into it.

She raised an eyebrow. “What the heck?”

It was pictures of Four-Eyes, large, professional-looking prints that were still slightly sticky from the printer, and he seemed to be posing in a studio setting, sporting a new outfit in each photo. She hesitated, and then shrugged, shaking them out of the envelope.  

The first one looked official. He was dressed in his usual work getup, a formal-looking suit, discreetly emblazoned with the insignia of the Crownsguard, and was facing the camera, face and pose neutral in front of a light background. The next photo was a headshot, en face. The lighting was perfect, accentuating his high cheekbones and symmetrical features. His eyes were quite intense and Aranea had to admit that Ignis’ green gaze was captivating. Well, the guy was good-looking, just too bad he was such a stiff. Even though he was mighty fun to tease. There was just something about his prim demeanor and perfectly pressed pants that made Aranea’s fingers itch to put a fart cushion on his chair.

She put the portrait aside, and stared. The third photo was clearly also a propaganda-shot, but this time he was geared up in a nothing less than the full Kingsglaive-uniform, tailored to perfection. The lines of the coat accentuated his lean form, and the knee-high boots and more militaristic style lend him a toughness she had not though him capable of. Damn, she would probably salute him if he barked out an order looking like that. She chuckled at the idea of Specs cussing like a drill sergeant. Heck, the man probably could not say “fuck” without his glasses going steamy.

She took another approving look at the Kingsglaive-pic, and put it down.

The fourth pic was different. Specs was back in the Crownsguard suit, but this time he was posing, as in model-style posing. The top button of the dark purple, leopard print shirt was open, and he had the jacket slung over his shoulder. He had a slight kink in his hips, and his expression was relaxed and slightly provocative. A “come-hither” look if ever she had seen one. Aranea shook her head. She would bet anything that the photographer was the Prince’s bubbly friend, and the little guy was apparently nothing less than a genius for coaxing that expression from Specs. Damn. And damn it was getting hot in here.

The next photo was much in the same style, except that he was wearing a grey t-shirt and dark grey pants, looking more casual than she had ever seen him before, and the neutral background had been replaced with a green one that looked a lot like those used for CG effects in movies. CG and Specs? She cocked an eyebrow. Prompto was also a whiz on a computer. She might have to pump him a bit for information.

Intrigued, she flipped to the last picture.

And her jaw dropped. He was facing the camera, holding of all things a hammer in one hand, arms crossed, and his expression was a fascinating blend of a scowl and a pout. But sweet, sweet mother of daemons, the man was dressed in nothing but overalls, free access for her hungry eyes to feast on his strong chest and broad shoulders, the defined muscles of his arms. Holy shit. While he was not as bulky as the Shield, every part of his body was perfectly proportioned, and he exuded a lean strength that reminded Aranea of a racehorse. Fuck’s sake, she had seen him train, she knew that he was a very accomplished fighter, capable of pulling some maneuvers that had even her nod in approval. And somehow, she had given nada, zip, zilch, thought to how fit he had to be to perform those maneuvers. Well, consider that remedied. His upper arms were now seared into her mind, and that sinewy line from his collarbone and up to his jaw and high cheekbones - ugh. She stared at the picture. To make it even worse, droplets were beading on his skin, like he was fresh from the shower or a hard workout. Aranea shifted in the chair. Her swore that she had just felt her ovaries twitch.

She lifted the picture up and brought it close to her face, as if trying to disprove that it was really Four-Eyes, Mr. Ignis Scientia, Royal pain-in-the-ass, in the picture.

No such luck. It was most definitely him.

“Ms. Highwind, what are you doing in my office?”

Fuck! She had been so preoccupied that she had not heard the door open. Aranea slammed the photo down upon the desk, somehow managing to get it turned over, backside up, and stared at the man himself, standing in the open door. Behind him, she could see his secretary stretching her neck trying to see what was going on.

 _Drooling,_ her mind said. Luckily, her mouth intervened, and “waiting for you” was what came out, only slightly quaking, and that would have to do. She awkwardly gathered the photos into a pile, trying to not stare. He was wearing a striped shirt in white and light grey, not a fold out of place, and his pecs were clearly outlined through the light fabric.

 _It still just Four-Eyes,_ her mind desperately reminded her, _he’s still the same stuffy, stick-in-the-mud, party pooper. Makes absolutely no difference how his pecs look like under his clothes._

Aranea cursed under her breath. Yes, the man was good-looking, no scratch that, he was gorgeous, but he was not even her _type_. She was not one for complications, and if ever she had met a complicated person it was Ignis Scientia. She wanted her fun clean and no strings attached, and normally went for the types that reminder her of herself, honestly. Straight forward, high sex drive, easy to read. Like, like Gladio! The beef cake was just what she needed, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he had a shitload of kinks to complement his inked muscles. No! She caught herself by the scruff of her neck. Not Gladiolus, but someone similar. She just had to get out of this office.

"Those photos are private," Specs said with reproach, closing the doors behind him and walking up to the desk. His crossed his arms and Aranea could not tear her eyes away from the way his biceps bulged out, stretching the fabric of his sleeves.

“Yes, sorry about sneaking a peek, but they are really good," she said, somehow getting her voice to sound light and teasing, and not give away the storm of lust that threatened to boil over any minute. Even though he kept his stiff posture, she thought she saw a pleased look flash across his face.

"Prompto wants to expand his area of expertise and asked me if he could try out some new techniques on me,” he admitted. Aranea wondered if the man had any idea about how suggestive his words sounded, or how wet she was at the moment. She shifted in the chair, even that slight friction almost making her moan. She had to get out of here fast, or she was gonna do something she would regret.

"Area of expertise…?" she said slowly, running her mouth without really paying attention.

"Photographing people. Artistic photoshoots,” he elaborated. “Prompto has mostly worked with landscapes and informal settings up till now."

Aranea just nodded, her eyes straying between his face and the photos on the desk. _Specs in swimming trunks posing at the beach, water running down his skin, slicking back his wet hair into that ridiculous reverse fringe…_

"You know, it can wait!" she exclaimed and shot up from the chair, scattering the photos on over the desk and floor, and exiting the office as fast as she could without breaking into a run.

She turned her side as she passed the stunned secretary so the woman wouldn’t see what she clutched in her hands.

* * *

Ignis watched the Dragoon's hasty retreat in great confusion. He couldn't help but note how good she looked, even in her bewilderment, miniature ponytails flying and breasts heaving in her tight black tank top. He had to stop thinking about her like that, like a - a _hot piece of ass_ \- he rolled his eyes at the term that had involuntarily popped into his head. He could stay professional, even if she made his heart hammer faster just by opening her mouth.

He tried to divert his mind by picking up the photos and stuffing them back in the envelope. He paused to briefly look them over. He had honestly thought the whole endeavor was more than a bit silly, and rather embarrassing, even if Prompto had been very vocal and enthusiastic in his praise of how photogenic he was.

Ignis held up a photo of him in dress pants and shirt, with his jacket over his shoulder.  

“The ladies are going to love this shot,” Prompto had groused. Ignis had thought it rather too much, theatrical even. But now he had to admit that it didn’t look all that contrived. And Aranea had said the pictures where "really good". On the other hand, she had virtually bolted from the room, clearly eager to be away. She had probably just been saying pleasantries. He shouldn't read anything into it.

He quickly riffled through the pictures, and frowned. There seemed to be one missing, the most embarrassing of them - him in overalls and nothing else. Prompto had cajoled him into trying them on, and Ignis had caved, if only to make the younger man shut up. He had not expected Prompto to bring out the spray with water, making him question exactly what field of photography the Prince's friend wanted to branch into.

Maybe Prompto had forgotten to include it. He let out a breath of relief that Aranea had not seen it. He made a mental note to check with Prompto and make sure he deleted that photo. It was really too compromising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I got the idea of Aranea looking at candid photos of Ignis, and it led to this. I'm even more trash than Ardyn... Also, this is not even proofread by myself, and is probably smack full of inconsistencies.


End file.
